


Jewish Spaghetti

by ImprobabilityMachine



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Homophobia, Implied Child Abuse, M/M, Slight Anti-Semitism, Transgender Issues, Transphobia, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-12 03:16:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19123459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImprobabilityMachine/pseuds/ImprobabilityMachine
Summary: Based off a prompt: Stanley Uris didn't expect to fall in love with Victor Criss.





	1. The Discovery

“What the  _fucking_  hell?”

Standing there in bloody briefs, his hands flying up to cover himself far too late, Stan knew his life was over. 

Victor Criss - the most shockingly blond asshole to grace the town of Derry - stood there at the end of the lockers, looking like it was him who was trapped, not Stan. Even as he tried to hide the shape of his body, the blood was a dead give away - Stan was a fraud, and now, Victor knew. Which meant soon, so would Henry. 

Life as he knew it was over. 

He was only trying to take a shower, to cleanse himself of this new monthly hell that was his period. He had known it was going to be bad the minute that strange pain had formed beneath his skin, warm and sharp, like a teeth digging into his uterus. He had held his side like he had a stitch, and managed to cash in his good reputation with Coach Black for the chance to shower alone.

But, of course, he was never alone. In Derry, the walls had eyes, the floors had ears, and the doors never stayed closed for long. So hearing another voice in there with him was sadly expected.

Hell, for all he knew, Victor  _followed_ him, intending to make trouble, or humiliate him.

Stan felt panic rising up from his belly, making the air far too heavy.

"Don't--" Stan tried to choke out the rest of the sentence, but he couldn't make his mouth work. It sat there uselessly as tears welled up in his eyes.

"Hey, hey, be quiet," Victor's voice was soft, almost motherly. He raised his hands, reaching towards Stan in a gesture that Stan wasn't even sure he knew he was making - looking for all the world like a lion tamer; as scared of Stan as Stan was of him. Stan wasn't sure if Victor was afraid  _of_ him or  _for_ him. Either way, it was so strange a sight, Stan forgot he couldn't breathe, and found it easy to draw in two big breaths.

The two boys stood there, frozen in place on opposite sides of the room. They both watched the other, waiting to see what was going to happen. After a moment of neither boy moving or saying anything, it was Victor who broke the silence.

“Is this your first period?" He asked, his voice calm, soothing. 

Stan sniffed and wiped his eyes, keeping one arm tight around his chest. “Huh?” It took him a moment, but he finally processed what Victor said. 

“No,” Stan said, indignant. Quieter, he added, “It's my second.”

This seemed to break the spell. Victor nodded, and then pulled something one of the many pockets on his fatigue-styled pants. With a quick flick, it went flying, and struck the very stunned and slightly curious Stanley in the chest, making him slap himself as he caught it.

“Well, plug it up, asshole!”

Stan looked at the item, growing more confused by the second: “Why do you have a tampon?”

“The better question is why don’t you?” Victor leaned back slightly, narrowing his eyes. 

There was a pause as some sort of idea played with Stan's brain. He felt like he’d stepped into the Twilight zone, and was just getting to the twist ending. His brain twirled and whirled, trying to bring the pieces of the puzzle together. But the picture he was forming didn't make sense - it just didn't fit the world he knew. It didn't fit the  _Victor_ he knew.

Victor, who hated the queers as much as they hated him. Victor, who used girl as an insult, and asked Beverly if she was on her period just to make her angry. Victor, who wore big clomping boots, and baggy pants, and tee shirts in the pool, and carried tampons in his pockets.

“I don’t understand,” Stan said.

“Do you really think I avoid the shower because I like the feeling of being sweaty?” Victor asked. 

The realization struck him so hard, Stan felt like he’d been slapped. His eyes widened and his nose flared as a greedy amount of air filled it. “You’re like me? You're like me!”

"Fuck you!" Victor shot back, a little too quick and a little too angry. Stan shut his mouth and looked down at his feet. He was so excited to meet someone like him, he almost forgot who he was speaking to.

He heard a sigh and looked up to see Vic swaying in place, one arm curled up behind his back. He always seemed so much older than he was - like he held some kind of secret knowledge of the universe that no one else did, but since Henry did all the talking, he never revealed what it was. In that moment, though, he couldn't have looked more like the child that he was if he still had chubby cheeks and wore a diaper.

"Yeah," he finally said, his voice soft. "I'm like you..."

"Neat," was all Stan could say. 

"Do your parents know?" Victor asked, a shadow of an emotion that might have been concern crossed his face. But as soon as it was there, it was gone.

"Yeah," Then, as if it explained everything - and maybe it did - "My dad always wanted a son."

Victor nodded, looking suddenly quite small, and young. It was in that moment, Stan realized that even as he stood naked and bleeding in the bathroom, in the open where anyone could see him, Victor was the vulnerable one. They all knew Andy Criss Jr as the drunkard who never came out of his house - at least, not fully dressed. He spat homophobic slurs, and talked nonsense about Jews, and blacks, and all the other people he thought was destroying the purity of his middle of fucking nowhere redneck haven.

Stan doubted very much that Andy supported Victor, if he even knew. Which meant if Andy ever got sober, what delicate control Victor had over his own narrative would be gone. If he survived.

Feeling a little bit guilty, Stan found himself confessing: "They don't really know how to help me, though. It's not like they can change how I was born."

Victor nodded again, thoughtfully.  

“You’re a grade behind me, yeah?" Victor sighed, making a decision he clearly knew would bring him trouble. "Meet me at the kissing bridge tonight. I’ll hook you up with Drugstore Dan. He’s got hormone blockers and t-shots and shit like that.”

“What are those?” Stan had an idea, but he was having a hard time believing that things like that existed. Things that could change him. Physically.

“They stop your puberty from fucking up your body,” Vic answered, confirming Stan’s suspicions, and sending goosebumps down his arms.

Stan started to say something, some kind of show of gratitude, but once again, there seemed to be nothing to say. Long past when it became obvious that the conversation was over, Victor turned on his heels, his boots squeaking dramatically against the floor. He walked off, whatever he’d come in there to do clearly forgotten, or deemed unimportant in light of what actually happened.

As soon as Stan heard the locker room door closing in the distance, he took his shower and put on some fresh clothing, wasting no more time. He had just finished tying the final knot on his shoelaces when the first of the other boys came in. Soon, they were a swarm, and Stan was just another face in the crowd. Nobody seemed to notice anything different about Stan.

And thanks to that asshole Victor Criss, maybe no one ever will.

Stan stood there, unsure of how to feel about it, but deciding on  _excited._


	2. The Conversation

“Stan’s actually pretty cool,” Victor said, leaning against the side of the Aladdin, a cigarette already between his fingers. Belch raised an eyebrow, and gave Victor a skeptical look. Victor ignored him. They stood like that for a moment, passing the cigarette between them. But Victor couldn't help himself - Stan was the most exciting thing to happen to him in a _long_ time. He found his thoughts, and feelings, bubbling up from inside of him, and leaking out through his mouth. “I mean, he likes Led Zeppelin, and –”

 

“– he has all these old Elvis albums,” Stan said, sitting on the picnic table, his shoes on the seat, his knees perfectly side-by-side. For once in his life, he was so disconnected from himself, that he didn't realize he played with the hem of his shorts every time he talked about Victor Criss - his hands fidgeting, searching for something to release small amounts of energy into, before it made him explode.

Richie noticed, though. He noticed that, and the way the mere thought of Victor made Stan smile, his eyes wistful and dreamy.

Richie handed him one of the two (all beef) hotdogs he’d bought from the vendor, his face scrunching up with distaste. Normally, Richie would be dragging on Stan for preferring his hotdogs with copious amounts of mustard. But the whole Victor thing took precedence.

“Didn’t he also hold you down while Belch burped in your face?” Richie asked, not at all jealous. Nope. Not him. “Then they burped on your sandwich, and you cried for like an hour because you couldn’t eat it anymore. I had to punch a kid for laughing at you, remember? And then, he broke my glasses chasing me! Do you remember that?”

Stan had to stop himself from taking a big bite of his dog, on account of gagging at the memory. Belch’s breath had smelled like tuna salad, and from that day on, Stan traded off his lunches whenever his mom, blissfully ignorant, made her ‘world famous’ version of it for him. It was so disgusting, not to mention the spittle that just got everywhere.

“Yes. But. He’s apologized for that. And all the other things, too,” Stan gave Richie a patient look, one that was practiced after years of putting up with Richie's shit. He knew just how to dance around the subject. How to explain without saying anything. It started with that look, which immediately put Richie on the defense. “He takes medicine that makes him irritable and aggressive. Besides, is that really worse than you licking the pudding cups so I won't eat mine?"

"He's still an asshole, Stan!"

"So are you!" Stan shot back. "Besides, he’s the only person who can me out with my… thing…”

“You're a traitor! A traitor! How can you put up with that big, fat -”

 

“– little shit, and a Jew,” Belch said. He dropped the cigarette and then stomped it out with the tip of his sneaker. “If Henry finds out that’s who you’ve been spending all your time with, he’s gonna be pissed, and then you can’t hang out with us no more.”

Victor blew smoke at Belch. He had already warned Belch about speaking bad about Jews, and this was coming dangerously close to crossing that line.

“I have lots of other friends that Henry don’t like. Catholics, girls, fags, and more. I’m gonna keep havin’ them, too. He's not the boss of me!”

"Sure he is," Belch stated. "I mean, he tells us what to do. That makes him the boss, don't it?"

Victor pushed off from the wall. For a moment, he considered just leaving. Maybe he'd go home, or maybe he'd wander around. Maybe he'd stumble across Stan, and have an intelligent discussion - God only knew those were rare in Derry, Maine. Or maybe he'd saunter off to the gay bar on the outskirts of town. He was always afraid to get too close, but he liked watching all the people just being themselves. Dressing all poofy like, and kissing each other right there in front of God, Jesus, and mother Mary herself. 

Instead, he turned around, looking at Belch, feeling just a little bit lost. He both wished Henry was there, maybe to get mad at him, maybe to tell him what to do. Maybe they could fight it out, and get all these stupid fucking feelings sorted out with fists. Maybe this time, Victor would win. Or maybe Henry could beat him until his skin was fire, and he didn't feel anything at all. Both were equally appealing.

But he was also glad he wasn't. Henry had a dark cloud hanging around him, and the more they hung out lately, the more Victor felt like it was a living, breathing, _thing_. And if he got too close, it might pull him in and eat him up, and spit out something so hateful and mean, it would make Butch Bowers proud.

Victor didn't notice Belch had moved until Belch was close, a sad look in his eyes.

“What about me?” Belch asked, kicking a pebble away, his hands tucked into the pocket of his jeans. “You ain't comin' to pizza night anymore. My mom's been askin' after you, you know. Afraid your dad might be gettin' too rough, scarin' you. Stuff like that."

Vic softened up a little. “Belch, that's dumb. You’re still my best friend. It's just that things are different. With him, I mean. You can't -”

 

“– help me with what I’m going through,” Stan said, sounding as much like a small adult as he looked. He wiped his hands gently on a napkin, and then folded them in front of him. Richie still hadn't even bitten into his dog. He looked at it, a small pout forming on his lips.

“Maybe I can help you, and you just don’t know it because I’m also keeping it secret,” Richie helpfully suggested. He straightened his glasses, and Stan watched, fascinated, as his eyes seemed to grow larger and larger as the thick lenses got closer to them. Not able to stay serious for too long, Richie broke into one of his voices. "Why, ah say, ah probably know more about than you!"

“I’m allowed to keep things to myself,” Stan pointed out. 

“But if you tell Victor, it’s not keeping it to yourself. It’s just keeping it from me,” Richie countered. "Your best friend!"

Stan sighed.

“You wouldn't understand,” Stan explained. "It's not something that just happens to anyone."

Richie dropped his head as he thought for a moment. With a voice so quiet Stan almost didn't hear him, Richie asked, “Is it because you’re gay?”

 

Victor didn’t answer. Belch stared at him, almost looking embarrassed for asking. But, it was a fair question, he supposed. All things considering. It was just that Victor simply hadn’t considered that he might be anything at all.

Sometimes, as his thoughts drifted to Gretta's little yellow bra strap, and Beverly's fire-red hair, he would wonder if he hadn't gone down the wrong path. Maybe he wasn't so much of a boy as he was just a very butch lesbian. His aunt was one of those; maybe it was hereditary.

But then again, once upon a time, he might've felt that way about Henry, too. He might've brushed the hair from Henry's head during sleepovers, and imagined what it could be to kiss him. Used to be, just hearing Henry's name filled him with such joy, such glee, he couldn't stop smiling. He had to bury his face to hide the red blossoming on his cheeks.

That was such a long time ago, though. He wasn't sure he could feel those things for Henry anymore if he tried.

"I don't think I'm gay," Victor said, plainly. He gave Belch a quick glance. But the other boy was just looking at him, curious. "But I don't think I care. I think... I think, I'd like someone who enjoys listening to music, and who reads late into the night. Someone who isn't violent, or angry all the time."

"Someone like Stan?" Belch asked.

The question startled Victor. His immediate reaction was to deny it. But then, as they stood in line to buy tickets first, popcorn second, Victor found the thought turning over in his head. It crept along his mind, lingering in the background as Freddy Krueger made quick work of some teenagers. Victor picked out pieces of popcorn with his tongue, like a little frog catching flies, and tried not to think of how very unlike Henry Stan was in every way. How he imagined he could tell Stan anything, and unless he admitted to eating off the floor, he didn't think Stan would judge him.

He could tell Stan all his fears, all his hopes... Stan made him feel safe.

By the time the movie ended and Belch and him parted ways, Victor was deep in thought.

Stan was waiting on the kissing bridge for only twenty minutes before he saw Victor riding up on his bike. In the moonlight, Victor’s head seemed to glow. His blond paleness rejected the darkness while the blue of his shirt absorbed it until it appeared almost black. It was such a sight that Stan wondered how he had ever been afraid of, or intimidated, by Victor Criss.

They didn't even bother to look around - nobody came out late anymore, and nobody hung around the kissing bridge. There were perverts creeping around, or so the rumors went, but they never saw anyone else. Just them.

Victor pulled a bag of clean syringes from his backpack. How he got them would remain a mystery to Stan, as Stan never asked. He tucked them into his own backpack, and then pulled out the bottle of testosterone he’d grabbed for Victor from Dan. Victor helped him with his shot, and then, after, they sat together for a moment. Victor lit up a cigarette and offered it to Stan, who politely declined. 

"Do you like me?" Victor asked. He flicked the ash from his cigarette into the Kenduskeag as he waited for Stan to respond.

“Yeah?” Stan answered, after a moment. “I mean, I’m not going to invite you to my bar mitzvah or anything like that, but you’re cool.”

Victor smiled. "I mean, do you  _like_ me, Stanley."

“Like… _like_ like?”

Victor nodded, still smiling.

Stan wasn’t prepared to answer that. He felt the flush running from head to toe, turning him as red as the balloons they'd seen tied around downtown - set up in anticipation of the upcoming parades. Suddenly, he remembered what it was about Vic that was intimidating.

Victor sat back, and put the cigarette between his lips. Stan never liked smoking, but somehow, Victor looked good doing it. He watched Victor for a minute, and Victor watched right back, trying to gauge the situation. They stayed like that for an uncomfortable amount of time, neither one wanting to be the first to breach the subject again, but both wanting the other to try.

Being the elder of the two, even if was by just over a year, Vic decided he would break first.

“I like you," He said, and that was that. Stan was dead. He felt the blood draining from him, being replaced by electricity that made him jittery and nervous. "So… you wanna hang out next Friday?”

Stan felt a small bit of excitement launching itself from his stomach to his heart. The heart responded by vomiting nervousness right back into it, creating a feeling most would describe as "butterflies in the stomach." For Stan, it just felt like he was going to puke. He was fevered, glowing as his heart was set alight by Victor fucking Criss and his fucking smile.

“Yeah, that’d be swell,” he said, trying to sound cool. Casual. 

“Swell,” Victor repeated, grinning at the quaint phrasing. He gave a little laugh, and stood up.

Victor rode with him to his house, making sure Stan go through the front door. Stan walked as calmly and as normally as he could to his bedroom, trying not to raise his parents' suspicions. Once he was safe in his bedroom, Stan buried his head in his pillow, and screamed until all he felt was a genuine sort of happiness that Victor Criss  _like_ liked him. And he realized, he might just like like him back.


	3. The Happy Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language used in this chapter is reflective of the language used in the late 90's, early 2000's.

Stan learned many things from Victor over the years. 

First, he learned that Victor didn’t frown and glare because the blond was in a perpetual state of unhappiness – Victor frowned because it made the lines on his face harder, and more masculine looking. Stan showed Victor the art of the bitch face, and Victor showed Stan how to murder someone with well placed eyebrows. The two of them could shame a person with one look more effectively than most people could with an entire paragraph of words.

Second, he learned that slumping the shoulders slightly and placing his feet more apart when he walked gave him what many people would consider a masculine gait. For Vic, that was easiest to adopt by tucking a hand in his pocket, and using the other for cigarettes – lollipops later on, after Stan told him his kisses tasted awful. 

He honestly looked Too Cool For School. Too cool for Stanley "I Iron My Jeans" Uris, anyway.

Third and final, he learned that while Victor  _like_ -liked him too, it took a lot of patience to transform their mutual crush into a stable relationship. Especially when that boy Victor used to hang out with found out they were dating and attacked them. Especially when Stan got scared and ran away from Derry - though what it was he was so eager to leave behind, he couldn't remember. Especially when they walked late at night, a chorus of heckles following them, and Victor had to be talked down from a fight.

Yet, somehow, Stan always knew exactly what he needed to say, or do, to get them moving along. And as Vic came up and put his head on Stan’s shoulder, the smell of his shampoo and sweat filling the air, they both knew it was worth it. The freedom they knew now was more than they’d ever thought was possible, and to get to share it together was nothing short of divine. 

Vic watched as Stan stirred some sugar into his marinara with a wooden spoon. He was making  _Jewish spaghetti_ , as Stan called it, even though Vic couldn’t tell the difference between it and his mom's spaghetti. Well, there was one difference...

"You know that's macaroni, right?" Victor asked, planting a soft kiss on the back of Stan's neck. Stan shivered in response.

“Stop it! You’re going to make me spill something,” Stan scolded, playfully. "And yes, I'm aware it's not spaghetti  _noodles_ , but the dish is still called spaghetti."

"The dish is named after the noodle that's used," Victor said, sounding more serious than the conversation warranted. "So this is Jewish macaroni."

Stan had a deep respect for many a great things when it came to grammar and language. Proper punctuation and spelling, the correct usage of the words 'literally' and 'radical', and knowing which  _their_ you needed were all things that soothed him in a way that Victor once described as 'nerdy.' However, despite believing that Victor was correct, and knowing full well it would bother him if Victor used the wrong word to describe something, Stan found himself humming in annoyance.

Victor smiled, and kissed that little sweet spot of Stan's even harder, brushing it slightly with his teeth. Stan leaned into it, his entire body feeling the effects. 

Realizing he was trapped between two of the sauciest things in his home, and a mess was inevitable, Stan turned around, and pulled Victor into a proper kiss. Victor tasted like grape chapstick and Miller beer, but Stan couldn't get enough.

“I said stop it, you jerk,” Stan teased, finally breaking the kiss. He grabbed the loaf of bread from the counter behind Vic and handed it to him. “Make the garlic bread."

Vic was grinning like a dork when Stan went back to cooking.

Two plates of spaghetti, four slices of garlic bread, and three full glasses of cherry wine later, Stan was plump, giggly, and listening as Victor laid his head in Stan's lap, and rambled on about some silly TV show. Buffy, or something like that. He ran his fingers through Victor's blue hair, remembering when it was once so blond, sunlight used to get trapped in it.

"You don't understand, they showed them kissing! On a popular TV show! Lesbians!" Victor said, with some enthusiasm. "I'm telling you, times are a-changin'. In a few years, we're gonna have so many queers all over TV, an' kids are gonna grow up seein' us. It'll be normal, man."

Stan smiled. "Not exactly like us."

"Why not?"

"Well, we're still different from them," he said, knowing that Victor was going to disagree. Sure enough, Victor sat up, his shoulders already tense.

"No, we're not," Victor said, his voice stern. 

In the years since they were teenagers, not much changed regarding their outlooks on their situations. Except, the two had somehow switched their dispositions entirely. Victor, who had once accepted his situation for what it was and was always so blunt about his struggles, with the right people, had become stealth to the point that he didn't even talk about it with Stan anymore. He just went on, counting himself in the same category as men who were designated male at birth. It was almost like he had forgotten where he came from.

While Stan, who couldn't even bring himself to say the word _transsexual_ until he was in his twenties, spoke freely of everything from his surgery, to his dead name, with as much ado as if he was discussing recipes for chicken casserole. It was just another thing about him - he was 5 feet 8 inches tall, 150 pounds heavy, wore his beard in a goatee style and his curls cut short, and was born in the wrong body. Oh, and Jewish. 

Maybe it was because the entire Criss family pretended Victor didn't exist, or because of how that boy Victor used to be friends with reacted. What was his name... It started with an H, Stan thought.

Or maybe Victor was right, and Stan was unnecessarily othering himself. Still, it seemed like a special consideration ought to be made for people who, like them, have to fight for basic respects others were born with.

Stan sighed. "Fundamentally, you're right. If the world wasn't full of bullshit, there would be nothing different from us and a gay couple who wasn't transsexual. But the world is full of bullshit. I mean, think of Jody! How many times has she tried to convince me I'm a butch lesbian?"

"Fuck Jody!" Victor was quick to spit, his tone venomous.

"Yes, fuck her, but..." Stan shrugged. "Unfortunately, a lot of people agree with her. So, until that's sorted out, I don't think we can consider this a victory. I agree it's a start, though."

Victor looked like he wanted to say something else, but, with a sigh, he let it go. He started to collect their dishes, but Stan - with a strange feeling that he needed to - reached up and hooked his fingers around Vic’s belt, pulling him down so they could snuggle.

Stan ran his thumb along Victor’s chin, and then held it as he took a kiss from Victor’s lips, followed by a few more.

"Hey, you know I love you, right?" Stan asked, staring into Victor's deep green eyes.

Victor sighed. He looked defeated, but also, like he wasn't too upset about it.

"Whatever," he said, in a tone that Stan knew meant  _I love you too_.

They kissed until Victor passed out, too tired to keep his eyes open. Shifting out from under him gently, Stan took the dishes and rinsed them in the sink. He checked to make sure Victor hadn't woken up yet, and, upon seeing that his beloved was sleeping so deeply he almost looked dead, went to take his nightly bath. 

As he sat in the water, Stan thought of a fortune whispered a long time ago, dropped from the lips of a creature that was impossible. 

_You will all live to grow and thrive and lead_ happy _lives until old age takes you back to the weeds._  

He thought of this every night. As he moved through promotions at Staples, and as he fondled the engagement ring he had purchased so many months ago and still hadn't worked up the courage to give to Vic, he remembered those words. 

He had a good life. One that he’d never imagined he could have, especially not with Victor Criss, of all people. If either of them had been born in different circumstances, it would’ve never happened, and only God knew where they would’ve ended up.

Maybe they were soul mates, forged from the experiences needed to complete their other half. Maybe it was dumb luck, or God, moving in mysterious ways. Or maybe, there was a happiness that only existed on the condition that when, in a few years, Stan would undoubtedly receive a call, he did not answer. Because that was the deal, wasn't it? He walks away, leaving Bill to deal with It alone, and he and Victor buy a cozy little house in Georgia, where he runs a successful accounting firm that he's going to build from the ground up.

Stan pondered this, as he did almost every night. And, just like every night, by the time he drained his bath, he was another hour closer to It's return, without any clue what he was going to do.

**Author's Note:**

> No beta readers, though this is technically the second draft. Constructive criticism always appreciated.


End file.
